


What Could Have Been

by RogueLioness



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Literally an Alternate Universe, some nsfw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-12
Updated: 2020-07-12
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:47:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23607805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RogueLioness/pseuds/RogueLioness
Summary: This started as a post I madeon Tumblrabout an AU where Lavellan wakes up from a horrendous dream about the events of DAI and Trespasser, looks over to find Solas in bed next to her, and proceeds to be mad at him for the rest of the week over said dream.And this is the result!
Relationships: Female Lavellan/Solas
Comments: 6
Kudos: 30





	What Could Have Been

  


  


Her heart’s going to fly clean out of her chest any second.

It certainly feels that way. She stares blankly at the ceiling in the darkness, the last tendrils of the dream slowly unwinding from her mind, slithering back to the void. Her breath is rapid, and shaky, and she’s not surprised to feel wetness on her cheeks.

Reality comes back in inches. It’s so quiet here; the only sound is the wind playing with the trees outside their window. There’s a softness covering her, the flannel blanket that carries the familiar, soothing scent of the laundry detergent that she uses. 

She pushes herself up shakily. A soft snore on her left has her turning sharply towards the source of the sound; and her heart flips over - in relief or shock, she can’t tell - when her eyes land on the sleeping form of Solas, of _her husband_ , resting on his back with an arm carelessly covering his eyes. As she stares greedily, he snores again, and she makes a low, half-choked sound of disbelief. 

He’s… here. He’s here, by her side, and not-

Her hand moves towards him, unbidden, and she touches his face. Feels the softness of his skin, traces over the freckles dotting his nose. He’s real. He’s real. He’s real. When she rubs a finger against his lips, he stirs, moves his hand away from his face to blink blearily up at her.

“ _Vhenan_?” his voice is thick with sleep, but it still sounds like him. “What’s the matter?”

His concern, even in his half-aware state, breaks open some dam within her. “Oh,” she breathes through her tears. “You’re here. You’re here.”

“Where else would I be?” She can tell he’s fully awake as he sits up next to her, his thigh pressing against hers. He’s awake, and alarmed. His brows are furrowed as he takes in her tears. “What’s wrong?”

“I had a dream-” she hiccups, then cries harder as he wraps his arm around her shoulder. “A bad one.”

He rubs her back, his warmth seeping into her. “Do you want to talk about it?”

She hiccups again, sniffs in a futile attempt to clear her blocked nose. Wordlessly, Solas hands her several tissues, and she takes them gratefully. She blows her nose, once, twice, places the used tissues on her nightstand in favor of the glass of water she keeps there. The liquid soothes her throat, replenishes what she’s lost in sleep-sweat and tears.

“Better?” Solas asks. His long, slender fingers softly massage the base of her neck sending frissions of relief up to her scalp.

“Yes.” She takes in a deep breath. The dream’s coming back to her, faint echoes of the vivid, overwhelming images, but shielded as she is by Solas’ touch, she feels none of the emotions that threatened to drown her. It makes it easier to speak about- it.

“I saw you,” she murmurs, hands fidgeting in her lap. “You were dressed funny. Your face was so… _blank_ . So expressionless,” she shivers. He gently takes one of her hands and holds it between his, silently encouraging her to continue. “You had this- this strange orb. It was pulsing with power, so much power… you gave it to a monster…” she exhales. “Some corrupted magister, I think it was. And- and the monster, he- he used it to kill so many people. He blew up the… I think it was the Temple of Sacred Ashes. It looked like it… and he just- so many people _died_ ,” her voice trembles, just a little. “And I- I had a cut on my hand,” she stares at the palm of her left hand, half-surprised to see it smooth and unblemished. “It oozed green light and it hurt so bad. And- people hated me for it, but- but they also wanted me to fight the monster. So I did… over and over… and it just… _hurt.”_ She describes the breach, that swirling, vengeful vortex in the sky that spat out demons and death. She talks about red lyrium. “It turned normal men into hate-fueled beasts,” she mutters, blinking blankly into the darkness of the room. “They slaughtered _everything_ for no reason. There was so much blood…” She tells him of the giant demon with too-many eyes and too-sly voice, of betrayal and deadly games played from behind masks and veneers, of ancient places lost and rediscovered and then defiled, of dragons tamed and conquered, and of monsters finally slain.

The silence that falls when she’s done feels deafening. Finally, finally, Solas shifts, pulling her between his legs, her back pressed to his chest so she’s enveloped by his arms and legs. She sighs, softly, contentedly; she feels safe, at last. He presses kisses to her temple, over and over, nuzzling his face against hers. 

Something else comes to her. “You left me,” she blurts out, hastily rolling away from him. “You broke my heart, and you left me all alone. And then- and then when I finally found you, you-” she raises her left arm, looks at it. It’s whole, and entirely normal; there are no poisonous green lines snaking up the length of it, no pulsing power in the palm that will burst out in a flash of agonizing pain. “You took my arm,” she whispers, rubbing her left arm with the fingers of her right. “You- you said you were the Dread Wolf, that you were going to destroy the world, and then you amputated me and… and you _abandoned_ me,” the words are heavy with accusation and anger. “You turned your back on me, and you just… _walked away._ ”

He sighs. “ _Vhenan_ ,” he shifts, attempting to coax her to look in his direction. “ _Vhenan,_ you cannot truly be upset with me over something you saw in the Fade.” She staunchly refuses to look at him. He sighs again, shifts till he’s within her line of sight. “No, I have never given an artifact to a corrupt magister. You would know if I had. No-” he forestalls the objection that wants to pour out of her mouth, “not everything you see in the Fade is a memory.” 

She sulks, deliberately turns her head from him. Solas takes in a deep breath, and lets it out slowly. The sound is loud in the quiet of the room. “ _Vhe-_ ” she jerks her head away from him again. “ _Vhenan,_ please.”

“You _left_ me!” she hurls at him again, as though it explains everything.

“It was a dream. I would never leave you.” Slowly, as though he’s attempting to calm a skittish horse, he reaches across the distance between them. She lets him touch her, lets him turn her so she’s facing him once more. “ _Ar lath ma,_ Neria. You are my heart, my home. Leaving you would be like depriving myself of air; I would perish.”

Her eyes fill up with tears again; she sniffles. “Promise you’ll stay with me?” she sobs, flinging herself at him, wrapping her arms around his neck.

Solas holds her to him, so tight he’s almost crushing her, but she welcomes the pressure. “I promise.” He waits till the tears stop, stroking her back slowly the entire time, before suggesting they go back to sleep. She agrees, but she doesn’t get any rest.

She’s not really sure if she believes him.

\----

**_Monday_ **

It’s silly to let a dream haunt her so, Neria knows. She’s aware of it, but she can’t seem to stop herself from giving Solas the cold shoulder. Each time he asks her a question, she replies with one-word answers, tersely spoken. Creators bless him, he hasn’t pressed her, hasn’t demanded an explanation for her strange behavior - for it is strange, and out of character for her. Instead, he gives her gentle affection, coming back to her again and again even when she pushes him away. 

She thinks she hates him more for how damn _understanding_ he’s being.

He’s at work, and she’s got the T.V. on as she prepares dinner. It’s some trashy reality show about the heiresses of Orlais; one of them’s getting married, apparently, and to accompany the raucous laughter and the garish opulence of the yacht wedding, fireworks are set off, bursting in the sky in a shower of sparks of blue, red, and green- green, like-

Her fingers turn boneless, and the knife clatters to the floor, but she doesn’t hear it.

She’s _there_ . Arms bound, and the sky is falling, and there are people shouting at her; her heart thunders, she’s so confused, so _terrified_. There are people shouting at her, strange ghostlike figures with hoods over their heads and viperous green eyes, smoke curling out of their ears and noses and mouths. They scream at her, spit at her, but she can’t hide, there’s nowhere to go, she’s being pulled forward, forward, forward- she doesn’t know what’s going on, but there are soldiers, and she’s running up a snow-covered mountain, amidst bodies charred to the bone, and- it’s horrible, horrifying, it’s wrong, so, so wrong, she knows this, she knows this, but how can she fix this, she can’t- she didn’t cause this, how is she meant to fix this, she tries to shout at the ghosts but they don’t listen, they scream at her over and over and their voices are too high and they hurt her head and her hand is throbbing now, viciously, violently-

an arc of too-green light, and more pain, so much more pain, but the ghosts are pleased-

She can’t breathe, her chest is clogged with the freezing wind and panic and terror- but she can’t stop, _can’t stop_ , this - whatever _this_ is - is too urgent, too important, she has to keep going, has to, it doesn’t matter that no one believes her, it doesn’t matter that everyone hates her, she has to- do- _something_ \- and there’s green high up in the sky, so wide and large and massive and it’s scary and she doesn’t want to be here she wants to run away she wants to hide she wants to-

The phone rings, and she’s jolted back to her kitchen, with the sunlight streaming in through the windows, where an advertisement for laundry detergent is playing on the television.

Her heart’s still racing. She picks up the knife from the floor, but she can’t seem to stop her hand from shaking.

_Vhenan. Would you mind picking up dinner on your way home?_

She half-expects him to refuse. It’s what she would do, were she in his place…

_Of course. Is there anything you’re craving?_

Damn him. How dare he?

She sinks to the floor, phone clutched to her chest, and cries. She’s not sure why.

\----

**_Tuesday_ **

She can’t stay home. She’s already on edge, but walking into their bedroom makes her too jittery. Makes her feel as though everything is going to come crashing down around her. Desperate for a change of scenery, she texts her best friend.

_How ‘bout some coffee? My treat._

Dorian’s quick to reply, as always. _Of course. How does three sound? I’ll splurge on the donuts._

They sit by the window in the farthest corner of the room - their usual table. She’s eschewed coffee in favor of some strawberry lemonade - the last thing she needs is caffeine ruining her already fitful sleep.

“So,” Dorian asks, peering at her over the rim of his cup, his moustache quivering slightly. “What’s wrong?”

“What do you mean? We do this all the time.”

He quirks an elegant brow. “You look like death. You have more bags under your eyes than I take on vacation with me, and that would actually be an understatement, not an exaggeration. Something’s clearly got you all shaken up. Did you have a fight with Solas? Do I need to have words with him?”

“No, I-” her hand trembles, and some of her drink spills on her white shirt. “Dammit,” she grabs at a napkin, goes to prevent the stain from setting-

The red liquid is spreading outwards on the cloth. It’s so- _red_. So angry. So like-

-like blood blooming from a wound-

She’s running through walls lined with red, dark rank-smelling liquid around her feet, the scent of iron and copper in her nose and on her tongue. There’s too much red, too much, and- there’s a humming sound, loud and haunting and it’s so furious and she doesn’t know why- how dare it be angry when _she’s_ the one who deserves to rage- always that sickening squelch before the red sprays out, she doesn’t _want_ to do it but she _does_ , wants to hurt them the way they’ve hurt everything around her- 

Dorian calls out to her, concern ripe in her voice, and she lifts her head towards the sound, eyes not fully seeing- he was there too, running by her side, running amidst the muck and the filth and the ichor, so desperately optimistic despite the grim and the dark and the bleak

Red, red and dead everywhere- and Solas is here,, too-red and too-sad and too close to death with haunted and hopeless eyes and she can’t bear it, can’t bear it, it’s too much, there’s no hope there’s only fear and despair and she’s helpless as she watches the love of her life die spilling more red than she thought he had and it isn’t fair it isn’t right IT ISN’T RIGHT IT’S TOO MUCH SHE NEEDS TO GET OUT SHE NEEDS TO GET BACK-

“ **Neria**!” she jolts as she’s shaken roughly. Dorian’s looking at her, unsettled but deeply worried. “What’s gotten into you?”

“Dorian-” he mouth is too dry, but the sight of her drink makes her recoil.

“Talk to me, please.”

She does. She tells him everything, then turns to look out of the window as she waits for him to tell her she’s crazy.

He doesn’t.

Instead… “I’ve had dreams like that before,” he confesses quietly. She stares at him, wide-eyed. “They can be… haunting.” There’s so much sympathy in his eyes she can’t quite bear to look at his face.

“How do I get rid of them?” she asks.

“They’ll leave, with time.” He reaches out, covers her hand with his own. “You’re not crazy, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

She’s not convinced. “Thanks, Dorian.”

\----

**_Wednesday_ **

Neria is being kind to herself, as Dorian suggested. The long, tapered candle gives off a pleasant, soothing scent, filling the air with vanilla and lavender. There’s a stack of magazines on the table, a cup of tea by her side, and she’s curled up on the couch with a soft wool throw tucked around her legs.

She hasn’t registered a single word she’s read.

With a deep sigh, she shifts, pulls another issue from the stack. Jostles the table as she does. The candle falls over before she can stop it. The flame touches the paper, which instantly ignites.

There’s a goddamn fire on the table; she knows she should do something, that she needs to put it out, but- she cocks her head to the side and finds herself just staring at it.

Yellow and orange and heat, so much heat it blisters and warps-

Shouting, and screaming, and panic; smoke handing thick and heavy in the air, wood charred black and glowing red, _help us, save us-_ There’s too many of them, too many, what can she do- nothing, nothing, there’s nothing to do, she’s going to die, they’re going to die, everything is going to burn to ash and _she can’t do anything_ \- but- wait- she can, she can, she’ll do all she can so he lives- he is everything to her, she won’t lose him, she can’t lose him- it hurts, it’s anguish that shakes her bones, she doesn’t want to leave him, she doesn’t want to die, but there’s _nothing else_ she can do-

she’s scared and terrified and petrified and she wants to curl up and cry. There’s panic in her belly and it’s desperate and gnawing and everything around her is burning, burning, it’s too hot even with all the snow and her fingers blister and her toes blister and her face blisters and she’s screaming and she’s falling and she’s burning and she’s falling-

Warm arms - not hot, but warm, and so familiar and so welcome - wrap around her. Solas’ arms are trembling as he rocks her back and forth, his lips pressed to her forehead.

“Are you okay,” he asks, his voice hoarse, when she finally pulls away from him.

Her throat feels strangely sore. “Yes,” she croaks, then remembers the fire and jerks upright. There’s nothing there; the candle’s been put out, the only victim a few pages half-burned. “You put out the fire?”

“It was a small one,” he murmurs, still unwilling to let go of her. “What happened?”

“I don’t know,” she mumbles.

She knows he isn’t convinced.

\----

**_Thursday_ **

The news feed is uninspiring. There’s a new picture up of Sera and her newest girlfriend at the beach. _It’s time for a Widdle fun!_ the caption exclaims. Photos of Orlesian Fashion Week posted by Vivienne, with little remarks under the designers she admires. A slightly-blurry video of Cullen and his mabari pup; she can’t help but smile at their antics. She scrolls past a banner advert for Rainier’s Furnishings, and she absently makes a note to check it out; Solas could use a new desk and bookshelves for his study.

The _Thedas Travels_ page has a slideshow of pictures. _Ten Places You Must See Before You Die_ , it’s titled. Curious, she checks it out. _Boulevard of the Seas_ in Antiva City, _The Winter Palace_ in Halamshiral, _The Argent Spire_ in Minrathous, _Adamant Fortress_ in the Western Approach...

She stares at the picture of the large, grey-stoned bastion. _An Orlesian fortress constructed by dwarves, this relic of the Divine Age stands on the very edge of the Abyssal Rift and once belonged to the Grey Wardens-_

Clang of metal striking metal, scent of blood fresh in the air. Ichor on her face, in her hair, on her hands. She’s running again, chasing a ghost, frustration ripe on her tongue- the ground shatters beneath her and now she’s falling, she’s falling and plummeting and dropping and it’s endless and she lands into nightmares and terror and everything is sickly and wrong and makes her skin crawl and the sly voices lick at her ears and make her shudder and cloud her mind and sap her resolve- 

but she’s grim and she’s determined and she punches ahead and she’s a leader and she _has to_ she has to there’s no other choice- until a choice has to be made and she doesn’t want to make it but she has to but she doesn’t and she tumbles out with grief blocking every pore and loss flooding her chest but there’s too many eyes on her to falter so she can’t even cry but that’s all she wants to do is cry and apologize and weep and- what has she done _what has she done_

When she wakes up, she’s in bed, the covers tucked around her shoulder. Her head throbs viciously. Weakly, she sits up, and finds a cup of warm tea and several chocolate chip cookies waiting for her. 

There’s also a small bottle of aspirin.

She starts to cry again.

\----

**_Friday_ **

It’s a bright, sunny day. There’s not a single cloud in the sky. Outside, she can hear the distant rumble of a motor as someone mows their lawn. There’s faint birdsong drifting in, and the scent of warm spices from the stove. She’s smiling and humming along to the music in the radio as she pours the batter into a greased pan.

She’s happy, and she’s in love, and she’s going to surprise Solas with his favorite cake. Life is good.

A ballad floats out through the speakers. It’s soft, and sweet, all violins and cellos, and it builds up to something deeper, something that thrums in her veins and fills her blood with desires, until her core aches and throbs-

 _Come, dance with me before the music stops_ . It rings so clearly in her head she finds herself turning, seeking him out. Her hand in his. His hand at her waist, heavy and warm. She’s floating across marble, the stars in the sky insignificant in measure to the light in his eyes. Scent of rose and jasmine thick, almost cloying. The rustle of vines as she’s pressed up against the wall, his mouth at her neck, teeth nipping, tongue soothing, fingers drifting under her dress moving slowly upwards, teasing, stroking, there but not quite where she wants him, where she _needs_ him-

Champagne on his tongue, passion on her breath, his gaze locked on her as he pushes into her, slow, steady, filling her so perfectly till he’s hilted as deeply in her body as he is in her heart. Her gaze never leaving his as he begins to move, hips slapping against hers, the sound muffled by the low hum of conversations from below the balcony. The music hangs in the air as he guides her to peak, as he makes lovely, lewd promises against her lips, her legs wrapped around him, trapping him, demanding more, neck bared up in offering, his mouth latched to her pulse-

Close, so close, so high up- she leaps off, soars, dives off the cliff into the sea of pleasure, washes up on the shore sated and breathless- he loves her and she loves him and she wants him and he wants her and it's lovely, beautiful, magnificent-

Solas walks out of the study. 

She strides towards him. Plucks the book from his hands. Pulls him down to her, slides her mouth against his.

He goes willingly with her.

\----

**_Saturday_ **

Elfroot, spindleweed, embrium. They’re growing well in their troughs, the leaves and stems a pleasing, soothing shade of green. She sighs when she sees that the trays in the shaded spot she’d reserved for growing deep mushrooms are empty. Still, she’s quite pleased with the crop of dawn lotus and crystal grace - she might even have enough to send over to Merrill.

She makes her way to the dragonthorn tree. It’s such a strange one, with it’s palmately lobed leaves that shine a deep, glossy green, and large orange-red berries that cluster in groups of two or three. Native to the Forbidden Oasis, it serves as a reminder of that one vacation she’d taken with Solas, just the two of them in a well-hidden paradise away from the rest of the world.

The sun glints off the swaying leaves. The wind whispers into her ear, cools the sweat that’s beaded at the nape of her neck. The scent of the earth hits her, loamy and rich-

The land is lush and verdant, more shades of green than she can count. She moves through grass softer than a dream, trails her fingers along slender, fuzzy leaves, the canopy above her dappled with sunlight. The smell of petrichor mingles with that of herbs, both known and unknown. Flowers bloom, a hundred different colors and sizes and scents. This is paradise unknown. It’s a marvel, and awe swells within her, wonder and amazement that such a place exists… so much beauty, such exquisiteness, then- flashes of gold, towers of red, hulking, misshapen, dead-eyed- pools of red, splashing up her legs, smeared across her face, running down her arm- the air changes from sweet to bitter and and she tramples all that is pretty beneath her feet as she rushes to stop greedy hands from grasping, from drinking- and she despairs that something so marvelous is despoiled, befouled, and she’s angry now, raging at those who would so pollute and defile so sacred a sanctum-

Something brushes against her arm. It’s a branch, laden with blooming red flowers, and she has, in her daze, clipped it while it was still growing.

Distressed, she takes it with her when she enters the house, places it in a vase filled with water.

The flowers are dead the next morning, withered and sadly drooping. Dry, shrivelled red petals lie scattered across the table.

She carries the ache in her chest all day.

\----

**_Sunday_ **

Neria watches Solas check his wallet, making sure the printout of his boarding pass is safely within. His small green carry-on suitcase is waiting by the door. He shrugs on his coat, checks the time on his watch before looking up at her. “It’s time to leave, I think. I do not expect traffic, but it’s better to be safe.”

She nods.

He crosses over to her, cups her cheek. She nuzzles against his palm. “It is only four days,” he watches her carefully. “Not years. I will be back. I promise.”

“I know,” she replies, but it rings hollow even to her own ears.

He places his luggage in the trunk, and she drives him to the airport. A strange kind of silence fills the air - it feels ominous, almost. Like the Fates are watching the two of them with bated breath. It gives her goosebumps, prickles the back of her neck.

The airport is bustling as it always is, and she parks in the short-term parking. He’s clearly surprised, but makes no comment. “I’ll walk with you,” she explains, and he accepts without question. They share an embrace before he walks away to join the line for the security check. He doesn’t look back, his focus on the screen of his phone.

It slams into her then.

There’s rubble and dirt and ruins of ruins and she’s bloodied and bruised and aching in places she shouldn’t ache, but she wanders around, desperate, despairing; he’s not there- she’s terrified, her skin feels frozen not with the cold but with the lack of his warmth, his essence- he’s not there, she can’t tell where he’s gone, she’s alone- he’s gone, and left her alone, and the loneliness steals her breath and leaves her gasping and her heart bursts into razored shards that pierce through her soul and _she can’t breathe_ , where is he, where is he- she is victorious, triumphant, she should be happy, she can sense it, but instead she’s filled with dread and heartache and there’s a gaping hole in her chest and she’s empty, so empty, and she- she _can’t_ -

“Solas!” she bursts out, loud enough to catch the attention of everyone around her. Her husband turns towards her, a quizzical look on his face. “Don’t go. Please.” There’s a desperate _don’t leave me_ that’s hanging in the air over them.

For a moment, they stare at each other. She doesn’t dare to breathe. 

Solas makes the slightest, most imperceptible nod. It’s enough of a response, and all the air in her lungs whooshes out of her. He picks his way through the crowd, and makes his way to her side.

Tension, that she hadn’t known existed, flows out of her. Neria’s shoulders slump with relief. She feels as though they’ve passed some unknowable test.

“You’ll stay?” she questions, hardly daring to believe.

“I will always be where you are, _vhenan_.” He takes hold of her hands. “Shall we go home?”

She doesn’t care that he’ll miss his meeting. Doesn’t care that everyone’s looking at them. Doesn’t care that she’s been acting so strange and aloof and afraid all week. 

Because it doesn’t matter, not any more.

He stayed, when she asked him to. And that’s all she needed.

The last of the dream dissipates from her consciousness, leaving only the certainty of his love in its wake.

“ _Ar lath ma_.” She smiles up at him, bright and beatific, rises up on her toes to kiss him. “Let’s go home.”


End file.
